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He grabs a fry — a chip — onto his wooden fork and chews thoughtfully. “It was weird,” he repeats. “It was like he… I dunno. I couldnae tell whit he was feelin’ other than batshit scared. Like, was he lucid enough tae know it’s a’ bullshit and he was pretendin’, or…” He spears another fry. “I dunno.”
I try one of the fries. They’re the best kind: crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, but also piping hot and strong enough to make my eyes water. I take an automatic sip of my drink, almost spluttering. “Fuckin’ hell, Fin,” I manage to croak. “How much vinegar did you put on them?”
Finlay stares at me, nonplussed. “The right amount?”
“My mouth feels like it’s having an acid bath.” I fish around my mouth with my tongue. “I think my cheeks are peeling. I only had one fry!”
“Call it a chip and maybe it’ll respect you more.”
I glare at him.
“Cannae fuck wi’ your precious mouth, though,” Finlay says, looking concerned at the thought. “Thatwouldbe a sin, and Rory would have my hide for it. Just take it easy if ye’re no’ as hardcore as me.” He glances down at the food in front of us, perplexed. “Dinnae think thiswashardcore — it’s just my usual order.”
“Anyway,” I say, grateful to have this interval to talk as I wait for the food to cool. “What’s all this about, money being sent to Benji? Who’s going to send their money away to get it destroyed?”
“Scared folk,” Finlay answers gruffly. He sticks another forkful of fries in his mouth as I chance a second. “Ye know fine well that money isnae gettin’ destroyed.”
“No, I thought not. At least we know now where his funding’s coming from.”
“Subscriptions from the fuckin’ petrified. He may as well be the Church, because whit a savior,” Finlay remarks, in a voice as acidic as our fries. “It only needs a handful of folk to send their life savings tae Benji for him tae get stupidly rich. He can control anythin’. He can shut doon whitever he wants.”
“The Daily Toot,” I murmur. “It’s gone? Rattled his cage too much?”
“Ye wouldnae think so. They’ve stood fast against shite a’ this time. Why gie up noo?”
“We still have no idea what happened during lockdown. Their offices could have been torched or something. We wouldn’t know.”
Finlay strokes his chin, looking uneasy. “Aye, ye’re right enough. But the lad at the shop said it was banned, which implies it’s still goin’ in some form. It’s just gonnae be harder tae track doon.”
“What about online?”
I barely finish my question before Finlay shakes his head. “Tried in oor room when we got here, because obviously Rory’s wantin’ tae upload the Hodgson footage. It’s slow as shit. Cannae trust anythin’ online, anyway,andthey monitor whit ye search for. They’re actively suppressin’ stuff against Benji. Whole place is a Wild West, a breedin’ ground o’ misinformation, the ground zero o’ interminable bullshit. We need fact-checkers, and fact-checkers checking those fact-checkers, and checkers forthosefact-checkers. It’s never-endin’. Everyone’s got a bias.”
As though the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, Finlay gazes unseeingly at the half-eaten portion of food. To my surprise, his glumness momentarily clears and his expression lifts. “D’ye mind?” Finlay asks suddenly, digging through the remaining fries to corner a pickled white onion between the wrapper and his fork. I watch, baffled, as he spears its slippery skin and places the whole ball into his mouth like a giant gobstopper.
I don’t know whether to be impressed or repulsed. “Vinegar, huh. Never knew that about you.”
“Naw, cannae get enough o’ it,” Finlay says, chewing cheerfully. “Could drink it straight fae the bottle, easy stuff.”
Screwing up my face, I rifle through the greaseproof paper for the remainder of the fries. Finlay nods down at the wrapping.
“Reminds me o’ a certain phrase that’s maybe worth keepin’ in mind.”
I raise an expectant eyebrow, popping a forkful of fries into my mouth.
“Back in the auld days, they used tae wrap fish suppers in newspapers. So they coined the expression about today’s news bein’ tomorrow’s fish-and-chip papers.”
“Huh.” I chew thoughtfully. “So I guess it means the things that seem important today are just…”
“Ephemeral.” It’s the same thing Rory told me earlier: in the end, none of this will matter. Finlay swings his wooden fork around, pontificating. “Revolutions o’ the past ended up as yesterday’s fish and chips. This one’ll be the same, sassenach. Nae fear.”
I down the last of my drink until all I take in is air. “It’s all newspapers are worth anymore,” I state glumly. “Seems to me they work better as food wrappers than news coverage.”
“Ye did the right thing back there.” When I gaze across the sticky table at Finlay, I note a boyish spark of pride in those fierce green eyes. “Majority of the media class are fart-huffin’ fuckwits. They cannae cope wi’ someone goin’ aff-script.”
“Did you see her face when I said I read The Daily Toot?”
Finlay laughs. “Aye. Fuckin’ gormless. Looked as if ye’d battered her Pomeranian.”
